Confessions of a Teenage Poet
1996. Bill Clinton has defeated Bob Dole to earn his second term in the White House. Prince Charles and Princess Diana have divorced. The Nintendo 64 is released in Japan. And Devil In Tights goes to college.

I’d never been much interested in poetry before. I’d read a little, sure, as part of my GCSE programme, but had never even thought of writing my own. Until, that is, I discovered free-form poetry. No rhyming schemes, no strict rules – just pen, paper and stream of thought.

For months, I was a writing machine. Every detail of my angst-ridden teenage years was thrust upon the lined paper of a Black ‘N Red notepad. I would wake in the night and write. I would come home from a night out and write. Every single little thing that could even remotely be called human experience was scribbled down in heavy pencil. I would read my work back to myself, imagining that I was some kind of modern-day beat poet – nay, surely I was a beacon to the millions of teenagers everywhere who felt as I did, but did not have the bravery to put it in to words.

And yet, I never showed anyone my work. It was too introspective, too personal.

Soon after, however, a defining moment in my teenage years occurred. I had never been clubbing. Nature gifted me with a baby face – at sixteen I had little facial hair and could never have passed for eighteen plus. One fateful night, some people from my college course were going out to the pinnacle of all night club venues – Dukes in Chelmsford. I arranged some fake ID (borrowing a friends brother’s driving licence), and headed off. I was last in the queue, and all of my chums wound their way in to the club. As I approached the door, a massive hand held me back.

“ID please.” Growled the man-mountain stood before me.

I produced the driver’s license with a flourish. “Here,” I said, handing it to him “it is!”

He looked at the license. He looked at me. Then, with great care, he handed me a piece of paper and a pen. “If youse are who youse say you are,” he rumbled “then you’ll sign your name here.”

Damn! Damn, drat and double-blast. I hadn’t looked at the signature. I hadn’t even practised. I hung my head. I took the offending document from the bouncer, and headed for the nearest call-box for my Mum to come and pick me up.

I arrived home, hot with embarrassment and angry that not one of my friends had come out to see where I was. I grabbed a piece of paper, and scrawled (from memory) the following:

“I get to the club
And you ask me for ID
You see it’s not me
I know it’s not me
My friends got in
I turn away shame-faced
You Bastard Bouncer.”

I fell asleep, the laughter of others in the queue still ringing in my ears. When I awoke in the morning, I read my poem back, and found that it was good. Not only was it good, it really captured the frustration of being a teenager, yeah?

And so it was that I decided to share this masterpiece at the next English Literature class (we were often invited to share our work with each other). I stood at the front of the room, nervously fondling the piece of paper held tightly in my sweaty palm. I coughed and slowly, with the assured confidence of someone who knows that they are imparting Wisdom unto others, I read the poem.

I finished, and closed my eyes. A second later, I opened them, to see thirty-odd faces staring back at me in something approaching pity. There was no clap, and sixty eyes watched me silently as I made my way back to my seat. I sat there, having realised what an abominable mistake I just made, willing my body to turn itself inside out, or for the ground to swallow me up, or a thousand other things to occur just to get me the hell out of there.

Nothing did occur, sadly, and I spent the rest of my college years being ribbed about it. But I didn’t mind, I wholly deserved it.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 12:43, 5 replies)

well
... as it happens, I rather like your poem.
(haberman is singing in the changes, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:15, closed)

Tee hee
I once did very similar when I read out the following that I'd written.


Big bang, gaseous matter
atoms collide, crash, batter
rocks form, seas are flowing
bloody hell, the universe is growing

Trouble is, 20 years later I can still remember it and am still quite proud of it.

I just don't think it was what my English teacher expected when we were told to write about life.

That'll teach her to answer the question 'what do you mean write about life?' with 'Interpret it in any way you want'
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:55, closed)

I rather like that, actually.
*tattoos*
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 13:56, closed)

but
was there a steaming mug of tea beside you when you opened your eyes?
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 14:10, closed)

It's not a bad poem
It's specific, heartfelt, straightforward and raw.
Could do with a bit of redrafting though.

;)
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 3 Dec 2008, 16:46, closed)